


It’s Elementary My Dear Watson

by TimelessDetective



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, BAMF John, Doctor John Watson, Emotional Sherlock, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Geniuses, John Watson's Blog, Kidnapping, London, Mash of Cases, New York City, PTSD John, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Rehabilitation, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Slightly Out Of Character, terror alert has been raised to critical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 19:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2240874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimelessDetective/pseuds/TimelessDetective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dramatic pasts drive both Sherlock and John all the way to New York City to start new where the recovered drug addict and ex-British Consultant Detective meets the depressed ex-British Military doctor by chance. Fate is in the works it seems, but with Sherlock not being honest with John about why he really had to leave London cause trouble? What about the classified incident having to deal with John’s discharge from the RAMC? This dynamic partnership will find itself tested when both of their seemingly isolated pasts catch back up with them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It’s Elementary My Dear Watson

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own any of BBC,CBS, or Doyle's Sherlock characters and/or plot(s) (that will be lauded to.) All I own are simply the ideas weaving them together.

.  
.  
Pilot  
.  
.  
Dull. That is exactly what London has become; completely and irrevocably dull. People walk through the streets with their petty problems of money, work, and relationships without ever knowing the real problems of the world. Nothing of interest ever happens unless someone either dies in a sudden, tragic manner or mysteriously vanishes. At least, that's how it is for a certain consultant detective. Well, ex-consultant.  
Now Sherlock finds himself once again reclined along his leather sofa in his small, musty flat in London that his brother Mycroft so kindly financed for his little brothers usage. He isn't dressed; instead he's chosen to lounge in his pajamas and dressing gown as usual. He has no work in his self-made profession as a consulting detective, but after all that had transpired he most likely won't anytime soon or if ever. He scoffed; those people- the Yard and Mycroft of course- were being ridiculously immature over the events that had occurred. None of it was his fault; he solved crimes for a living- crime that was far too advanced for the simple-minded fools that claimed to work them. Of course it was natural that one day a highly superior criminal was going to rise to the challenge of besting the lot of them.  
A pale, lanky arm reached out from where it had been lost in the folds of his robe to come up and run fingers through his dark curls. Amateurs is what the lot of them are, a whole community of brain-numbed amateurs. The detective sighed in exasperation before quickly jumping up to walk over to his music stand by the window where his Stradivarius sits waiting on the side table. He picked it up and placed his bow and immediately went through complex warm-ups without Sherlock even having to think about it. He decided that if anything were to be done today, it would be to complete the score he was halfway through composing. Sherlock once again started from the top, all of it so far stored in his mind to play through at will, and as he got near the last bar line Sherlock began to quickly analyze to decide what would fit perfectly after that F-sharp.  
"You know, you're really good at that," a sultry voice spoke from behind him. "I'd love to see you play me like that."  
The bow screeched across the strings, making the most horrendous noise possible, before Sherlock, in shock, dropped his Stradivarius, bow and all, to the ground. The detective spun around quickly, observing every inch of his flat as he did, even though he knew no one was there.  
"The Woman…" Sherlock muttered with displeasure as he remembered when those words were spoken last. He had worked on that same composition the last time she has appeared to him-before when his circumstances where different. He looked down at his prized violin with distaste now; it seems that even she has wreck that for him as well. He quickly packed up the instrument in its case and stuck it under his armchair by the wall, as it was low enough to the ground where it would be permanently out of sight. With a grunt of displeasure the brunette threw himself once again on the leather couch, resigned now to sit in silence for the rest of the day now that another past time of his was ruined. If possible his frown deepened. This lifestyle of inactivity was decaying his minds standard ability to run in absolute perfection. Instinctively, his right arm seemed to have then risen of its own accord. The pale blue sleeve of his robe fell down to accumulate around his shoulder and revealed the tracks along his arm- all strikingly pronounced on his pale limb. He wasn't even thinking as his left hand moved swiftly to reach underneath the couch to pull out a small shaving kit. From within he pulled out the hypodermic needle and his already prepared injection. It took no time at all, because by now injecting this stimulant was a perfected practice. Sherlock sighed as he began to feel the effects almost immediately, his brain quickly adjusting to the stimulant as he could feel the rush of numerous and scattered thoughts washing over him. Vaguely, Sherlock wondered how he had come to result to such dull methods to get back the rush he used to get from being able to solve crimes and puzzling deaths.  
"No, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway someday. I just don't want to rush it." The criminal told him. His voice was jovial, but his eyes were cold and full of darkness.  
Closing his eyes, Sherlock fell back into his mind palace where he let his mind carry him back to the beginning, before all of this mess started, and to where his life was still somewhat mildly interesting.

~~~~/\~~~~

(Sherlock)

It all began suddenly with those mysteriously related suicides. I had been brought in and within six hours had deduced the importance of finding the pink suitcase and the real meaning behind the word "Rachel." Lestrade had been with me then and, by using the tracking on the pink phone planted by the Pink Lady on her killer, had traced the signal to a poor cab driver in central London. The man told us that he had a "sponsor," and that for every person he killed money went to his kids. What was irritating the most about the whole thing was that the blasted cabbie would refuse to give the name of the Sponsor. Now if I had been alone, well, I had ways of making people talk; but, with him sitting in the middle of Scotland Yard it made any attempts to get a name impossible. The Cabbie then conveniently died of an "aneurism" a little over two hours later where he took the name of his sponsor to the grave. I'll admit this left me feeling deeply unsatisfied and grouchy for weeks as I wondered if I would ever hear from my "fan" again.  
It wasn't long after that before I was approached by an old acquaintance from college. His employers wanted to discover how a break-in was committed at their office so that they could prevent any more. What I actually discovered was a locked door murder conspiracy that was much more deliciously entertaining. It led me to uncover an underground Chinese gang- the Black Lotus. Apparently they were in town to collect an item pinched by one of their smugglers. With minimal detective effort required, I discovered the meaning behind the cipher and, by tracking a hunch about the museum girl who turned out to be an ex-member herself, I was able to learn the book used for the code and could then decipher the message. Unfortunately, she died that night, but at least it was after she did something useful. I took the message to the Yard’s lap dog Dimmock where he took his men down to the Black Tramway. Shots were fired and in the end Shan got away. Ironically, I did find the treasure they were looking for. The Jade Pin, worth over nine million quid, was on the nightstand of their smugglers secretary. It was a somewhat exciting case, but all too soon it was wrapped up and I was bored again.  
It was nearly a year of the usual string of thefts and disappearances before it began at last, the prelude to the game. It began when my brother forcibly brought me on the case regarding that Woman: The Dominatrix, Irene Adler. I will admit she was the closest thing I have had to an adversary up until that point. It was all a power play over what she had on her camera phone. She got close to me, dangled a puzzle so enticing I couldn't help but to solve it quickly and efficiently. Though, by doing so, I had unknowingly unraveled years of my brother's work against a global terrorist cell. It didn't matter, because in the end I made up for it with the information on the hard drive when I successfully unlocked it. It was so disappointing in the end; The Woman wasn't as infallible as she believed herself to be. She let sentiment get in her way and, as always, sentiment is a chemical defect always found in the losing side. Most importantly, it was on that day that Irene Adler revealed to me the true purpose of her little "exercise." My fan, the sponsor of crimes, was really the "Consulting Criminal," Jim Moriarty. The game had finally begun, and while my brother Mycroft looked as defeated as always, I was as excited as could be. The game had begun, but at that moment I was not looking ahead to any possible conclusions or implications of the game. No, I was just enthralled in the moment. Maybe if I had been more aware of what was going on around me then I might not have ended up in the predicament that I've found myself in now.  
The game began with what authorities had thought was a simple gas explosion down at the library of the Roland-Kerr Further Education College; the site where all of this started over a year ago. What it actually turned out to be was a message for me in the form of a pink phone. The message contained five "pips" with a photo attachment that had whatever challenge I was to overcome. Naturally there was more to it than that, I was always on a time limit while some person somewhere in London was strapped with enough explosives to bring down a house. I got through them all; the truth of Carl Power's poisoning, Janis Car's side business, Connie' Prince's death by her housekeeper, and finally the fake Vermeer painting. I assumed that this would all lead up to the truth of what Moriarty really wanted, the final pip: The Bruce-Partington Plans. I had recovered them for Mycroft because his people were too incapable of doing so and had kept them just for this expected ending. I arranged our meeting at the pool where Carl Power's died and that's where I finally him. Jim Moriarty showed himself to be cruel, calculating and undeniably genius. Apparently I had caught his attention and actually pleased him with my performances over the past year in dismantling some of his organized crimes. I wanted to know of his intentions, what all of these tests were really for. A goodbye. That is what he told me. So he wasn’t after the missile plans at all—those he assured me that he could acquire anywhere.  
Moriarty had wanted to let me in on the fact that his attentions were going to be focused elsewhere for a while and that he wasn't going to have time to pay me any "special attention." He told me he wouldn't forget me, because he was saving the end game for something special. Something he assured, that would “burn the heart out of you.” This part was confounding at best, as I have no such sentiment. Moriarty was pleased to inform me of how that would be the promised day when I would finally die by his hand. But, for now, he wanted our first meeting to go off "with a bang." I wasn't going to just let him go, but I was held down by snipers and made to sit back and watch as my opposite escaped the pool. Upon leaving I received word from Lestrade that small bombs had detonated across the city. While no one was attached to these explosives, they were planted at each site where the earlier vested victims had been forced to stand. The car park, the middle of London, the apartment complex, and a kid's play park. Seeing as it was the middle of the night no one was around either parks; but, the accumulated causalities between the street and apartment bombing was 19 dead and 6 injured. Lestrade wanted to know what had happened, if I had failed another test that they didn't know about.  
Naturally that wasn't the case, but I had told them what I knew; that Jim Moriarty had vanished amidst the chaos of London and wouldn't be found. They didn't find this an acceptable answer for all the injustices wrought that day. Donovan and Anderson overreacted as usual and had claimed the entire event was my fault seeing how it was my "fan" trying to gain my attentions. They claimed London was safer without me bringing out the crazies and threatened Lestrade that they would take the case up with the head of New Scotland Yard if he didn't cut me loose. So I was relieved of my job as a consultant for the Yard that same day and was never called to work a case again. Lestrade attempted to console me with his sentiments. Telling me to lay low for a few months and then maybe he could see what he could do. I understood clearly what and why it happened, but just because I understood the reasoning behind didn't mean I had to like it.  
After the game ended I spent weeks wondering the city, through all of its back and side streets, trying to keep my mind and its deductions sharp. It was during one of my nighttime wanderings that I had come across a fight in a back alley against some thugs and a smaller man. I was bored and, for the excuse of keeping fit, I easily took care of the low life punks with simple precise shots to their body's vulnerable points using a system of Japanese wrestling. The victim I did not care for, but he insisted on thanking me. Before I could immobilize the man, so he would stop thanking me, and continue on my venture he shoved something in my hands and dashed away. Looking back now I should have tossed it away knowing what vagrant had passed them to me- an obvious addict, run away from home, and a failure at pick pocketing. But I was so bored and took any excuse to ignore the reality in front of me. The bag contained cocaine, which that much I knew before even looking at it. Cocaine is a stimulant used to elevate mood, increase feelings of well-being, and increase energy and alertness. But I knew I was above this nonsense, I have seen the obvious effects of the use and abuse of the substance in my many wonderings around London. So why had I taken them? Simply put, I was bored.

~~~~~/\~~~~~

"Sherlock." The voice was deep, familiar, and full of authority; so naturally he ignored it. "Sherlock Holmes it would be wise of you to retreat from that mind palace of yours this instant. We need to talk."  
Said man could see the blankness of his mind begin to fade as the reality of his dingy flat once more filled his vision. Well, that and Mycroft.  
"You've put on 4 pounds since I've last seen you here Mycroft. That can't be healthy for you." Sherlock yawned as he stretched his limbs. He glanced at the clock on the wall. "Six hours have passed, no wonder I feel terrible." He grimaced as he finally sat up, if only to glare at his brother who had made himself comfortable in the adjacent armchair.  
"Sherlock you have a problem. This needs to stop now." The Elder Holmes left no room for argument.  
Though, being Sherlock, there is always room for argument. "I do not have a problem, Mycroft. You told me to engage myself in other recreational activities outside of crime work and I have. Now if that is all you have to say then I'd suggest you leave."  
Mycroft's fist clenched the handle of his umbrella as he set steely gaze on his younger brother. "You know very well this is no such recreation I had in mind, and if you don't have a problem then why do you persist in the use of it when I know you are more than aware of the consequences long-term exposure."  
"I do it because-." Mycroft rolled his eyes before cutting Sherlock off with a wave of his hand.  
"You're bored. I know." He released a sigh of resignation as his gaze softened a tad. "I know this inactivity has been difficult for you to bear with. I have tried to offer you work before, but-."  
"I won't work for you Mycroft, you know this." Sherlock scowled as he tucked his oversized robe around himself.  
"Exactly. Which is why I've come here with a plan to help you rid yourself of this ridiculous addiction you've found yourself with-."  
"I'm not an addict!" Sherlock protested, but Mycroft continued on as if he hadn't heard him.  
"-and to also relieve yourself of this perpetual state of "boredom.'" He finished with a sort of gleam in his eye. Sherlock didn't like that look and stared at his brother suspiciously.  
"And what, pray tell, could that possibly be?"  
Mycroft sat a little straighter in his chair, now adopting a smug expression as he told his little brother of his inevitable fate.  
"Why, rehab my dear brother.”

~~~~~/\~~~~~

**Author's Note:**

> Hopefully a different take on an alternate universe. Would love to see what you think.  
> Warning: installments are sporadic but forthcoming. Patience is definitely rewarded.


End file.
